


hunting down the dark

by made_of_lions_and_wolves333



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Halloween Moods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/made_of_lions_and_wolves333/pseuds/made_of_lions_and_wolves333
Summary: When he is bored, he enjoys a good hunt; but only if she’s the hunter. And she comes after him, ready to slice and dice. Because now that’s the way he wants it.[Sebastian/Elizabeth; dark oneshot -- just inspired by some Halloween Feels]





	hunting down the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrytteMystere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/gifts).

As a young child, the shadows after dark scared Lizzy, as the darkness frightened all children.

Though her reasons for this were slightly different. It scared her only because she was drawn to it, and she never really knew why then.

She just wanted to touch the darkness... merely out of curiosity, but each time she’s roam the halls alone after nightfall, reaching her hands and her mind openly out toward the shadows, she’d back away quickly and return to bed, forgetting about the experiment. Most likely, she’d regret it later, probably. The dark wasn’t something to play in, to tamper with just because she wanted to. It was too risky, too distasteful.

Instead she tried to be good, through and through of course. She tried to laugh and remain a bundle of pink ribbons, sugar, and everything that’s nice and pure.

(It doesn’t really pay off.)

* * *

The strange nature of the dark still follows her, but, she’s grown less and less frightened of it by the day, for she has seen it with her own eyes.

Now, she _knows _the dark very well. She knows him, by touch, by sight, and by voice…

And in her dreams, she watches a false happier version of herself strip naked and willingly fall back over the mattress with the beast, gleefully shuddering. For in a dream, he’s more in control. It’s the one place she can’t escape and disregard him as easily. Maybe, he will corner her in and press her up to a wall, his hands keeping her there by the throat. His true form is constantly blurred in her mind’s eye, but with practice and patience, Lizzy can effectively make out the outline of horns, his long rugged feathers dripping with blood and black ink. His breath radiates heat onto her.

Streams of black smoke will engulf them, and she usually will feel herself start to sweat and choke by this point, gasping for air. Her eyes squeeze shut as he simply laughs. His fanged smile reminds her of a sharp blade glinting in the moonlight.

* * *

He surely is a fickle creature.

For one, he enjoys the hunt; but that is, only if she’s the hunter. And she comes baring a Scythe that is familiar to both of them, ready to slice and dice. Because that’s the way he prefers it.

He wants them running in endless circles— to have her raging, fervent, her soul setting itself on fire. He wants her reaper blood to stir and sing with vengeance — to have her charging at him like a warrior goddess, dancing in the dark that he is.

He’ll do anything these days to save himself — save himself from _boredom_, to be more precise.

A dull emptiness like that is not a good color on him. Thus, a primal and formidable desperation takes hold of him instead. He was not originally made to simply fade out and be forgotten. Oh, yes, he’ll leave a black ugly mark if he really wants to. Wherever, whenever. He is the worst pestilence she’s ever seen indeed.

It spread from the twins, to Charles Gray, to Roma, her family and Paula, eventually interrupting her grandfather’s line of work as well. All of them, damned, doomed, or tainted. And he was always right there, festering at the roots.

The sweet Irish boy she had kissed last Sunday, evidently, is no different than the rest:

Such a sad sight to return to. She had spotted the rivers of blood before she even found his mangled body behind the canopy’s curtain, thrown upon the bed like an old damp rag.

But what was the worst part? Elizabeth didn’t need answers of how or _who_ or why.

(She had already known upon impact.)

The motive behind the crime was crystal clear, because it’s all happened before. It had happened every time she grew tired of their usual chasing games (again) and she’d tried her damn hardest to just ignore his presence.

Alas, the demon can’t have that. He cannot. He cannot stand by idly year after year and watch her move on (again), finding another shimmer of happiness in something else that did not involve him. He’d wait, then pounce when the wrong timing was just right, ultimately destroying whatever (or whoever) owned the rare ability to make her want to smile and love after all this time.

To say that, _Sebastian_, her personal demon is possibly the ‘jealous type,’ would honestly be too kind.

Becoming such a focal point in his games and ploys is a curse she’ll never wish on anyone, not even on her most hated mortal enemy.

* * *

She tracks him down through the thicket tonight, all over the Welsh countryside, because he _stole _the Scythe and is now holding it hostage, as bait. That was it!

She finally elbows her way into the window of an old vacant courthouse. It’s a fair ways down to the main level and when she makes firm contact with the floor below, it stings. Aching and bruising, she pushes herself away from the broken glass, but not before she makes a point to grab a shard to use in her defense.

Though as before, he wants her this way (he’s already learned: as delicate as she appears on the outside, there’s a certain level of danger there too, simmering under her flesh). He wants to see the inner-dragoness she keeps hidden in that lamb’s suit she parades in. He revels in that.

She doesn’t see him slinking around at first, but she turns sharply on instinct, thrashing and kicking, giving him the fight he so desires.

Dear God. That delighted smirk of his simply _infuriates _her!

She screeches out a battle-cry as she attacks him again, letting her ire be heard in the echoing pillars surrounding them. She goes for the throat directly, the jagged piece of glass pressed tightly in her hand doing so, and she doesn’t care that it cuts open her own palm in the process. 

He blocks every following blow and hit perfectly, long attuned with her actions and technique.

Then suddenly, they’re entangled and falling upon the carpeted isle in between the chairs, landing with a distinctive_ thud!_

He’s atop of her, weight solid and real, caught between her thighs. His lips start trailing along her shoulder. She moves her hips against his in response, keeping a slow tense rhythm as he continues tearing through cotton and satin. Her fingers cling tightly, clawing at his hair, scraping up his back.

He’s inside her. Again. It always comes back around to this. The reaper part of her hates herself for this, and another human part of her dies while she rides through the familiar motions, the pain and pleasure, when her body eagerly reacts to his caresses. 

But, if anything gets her closer to winning tonight, _hell_, she’ll try. She grabs his neck, knowing she’s very close to her release and breathes into his ear. “I will kill you, one day. Somehow.”

He scoffs against her forehead, and finishes right after her. “I know.”


End file.
